Of Noble Family (6 page)

But Vincent had trusted her with his fears about this voyage and more. Jane could trust him with hers.

She straightened and took the glass of water he offered her. She rinsed her mouth and cleaned her face with the damp cloth he handed her. Folding the cloth, Jane said, “I think I might be increasing.”

He exhaled forcibly, almost a laugh, almost a cry, as if the thought he had been holding escaped all at once. For a moment, the mask of deep reserve that was his habitual expression snapped into place, his face appearing calm, but with a suspicious lustre to his eyes. Then he shoved aside the years of training with a shake of his head, and all his wonder became visible. “Truly?”

She nodded, averting her gaze from the joy in his. “I did not want to tell you in case…” In case she miscarried again. “In case I was wrong.”

“But we might have turned the ship.”

Jane drew back a little to stare at him. “To what purpose?”

“Well—well, you should not be travelling in this condition.” Vincent raked his hand through his hair. “I wonder if the ship's surgeon has any experience with childbirth.”

“We shall not be on board long enough for that to be a concern. And, truly, aside from the illness, I am little troubled. I would be just as unhappy on land.”

“But you should have had access to a proper doctor. The best medical—”

“The best medical opinions did nothing to save Princess Charlotte.”

Vincent drew up short, eyes widening. Jane instantly regretted her words. As a man, he had never been privy to a circle of women discussing the horrors of childbirth. It seemed every married woman had at least one friend who had not survived her lying in, and they all felt compelled to relate those stories. Her mother seemed to collect the tales. It had been all Jane could do to keep Mrs. Ellsworth from telling a new one every day to Melody.

She slid her arms around him and leaned into an embrace. “I am sorry. I ought not have said that.”

“No. No, you are right to remind me of the burden you face.”

“Burden?” Jane snorted and squeezed his ribs where he was most sensitive. Vincent gave an involuntary laugh and twisted away. Jane pursued, tickling her impossible husband until she chased him into a corner. “You are the only burden I carry. Do not even contemplate coddling me, or treating me like delicate china, or shutting me up in this cabin.”

Breathless, he held up his hands in surrender. “No! No. I cry mercy.”

“Do you promise to continue on as if my health were unchanged?”

For a fraction of a second he hesitated. Jane made a move towards his ribs. With a nervous laugh, Vincent caught her hand. “I promise not to treat you like a delicate china cup, but you must allow me room for some solicitude. Please, Muse?”

“Hm.”

“Fetching your tea. Warming your slippers by the fire. That sort of thing.”

“As we shall be in the West Indies, I very much doubt I shall want my slippers warmed.”

“We will not be there when your confinement comes. I shall see you safely back in England long before then.” He raised a hand and traced the line of her cheek. “Are you…? I recall that you were unhappy during the first … before. Will you let me do what I can to make you content this time?”

Jane pulled his head down and kissed his cheek. The rough brush of whiskers told her he had not yet shaved that morning. They tickled her as he pulled her deeper into an embrace. She sighed, settling against him. “Vincent, the last time we had been married but three months, and I had not known you for long. It was my first time away from home and family. I was terrified and uncertain in ways that are well in our past. While I do not relish that my condition requires me to give up glamour for months, it is the best possible timing for such a prohibition. We would have little opportunity to practise our art due to the mourning period for Princess Charlotte. I have better reserves now, and plans for how to occupy my time.”

“You are a wonder, Muse.” His voice rumbled in his chest as he pulled her tighter. “What are these bold plans of yours?”

“First, I thought I might write a book.”

“A book, eh? A novel such as Melody reads, perhaps? Full of young women pining for arrogant men?”

“Oh, no. While I would argue that I have some experience regarding arrogant men, I thought to indulge in my own interests and write a book about glamour.”

He ran a hand down her spine and settled it at the small of her back. “I approve of this plan.”

“Good, since I do not know that you have much say in the matter.” Jane trifled with one of the buttons on his waistcoat.

He chuckled. “You said ‘first,' which implies you have other plans.”

“I thought to paint, since the landscape of Antigua will be new to me. And also to work on my music. Perhaps I will finally learn the harp.” Jane worked the button free and felt a certain subtle shift in Vincent's posture. “And attend to my husband's needs, of course.”

He cleared his throat. “Is that safe?”

Jane undid another button. “His papers and correspondence? I shall be certain to take care when sharpening his quill.”

He groaned. “Muse, you are at times wicked.”

She tilted her head up to kiss the tender part of his neck below the line of his jaw. “I learned that from you, Rogue.”

“I would argue against your case.”

The remainder of their argument took place without much language, and through their combined efforts Jane and Vincent were able to resolve any marital difficulties that arose.

*   *   *

The weather became progressively
warmer as their route carried them farther south and west. Jane began to regret that she had brought only black gowns. She quite longed for a simple white muslin. Her parasol had been of no use at sea, but the moment they docked in the calm harbour of St. John's in Antigua, Jane was happy to avail herself of its shade. Even the shelter of her bonnet was not entirely adequate for the tropical glare.

The small town that had arisen around the dockyard was a tidy affair of modern stucco buildings. Green hills surrounded the brilliant blue of the harbour, and palm trees waved overhead. Everywhere around them, people moved with a purpose. More interesting was an alteration that took Jane a few minutes to notice. Aboard the ship, she had been surrounded by Englishmen, with some few men of foreign extraction thrown in among them. Here, Jane saw Black Africans everywhere she looked. For the first time, Jane understood why the term
Black African
was used, as the skin of the workers unloading their ship was very dark indeed. There were very few faces as pale as her own. She had spent a good deal of time in London associating with the Worshipful Company of Coldmongers, the young men who provided cooling glamour to the great houses of London. As they were largely descended from slaves, she had become used to being around young men of colour. Compared to the dockworkers, those young men had been as fair as she. There were men of colour in the lighter range of brown that she was accustomed to, but they were fewer in number.

Ibrahim stood at her side on the deck. They gazed at the bustle of the port while they waited for Vincent to finish the business of finding lodging, which Jane and Vincent would need until they could arrange transport to his father's estate. She had their small case on deck, so she used it as a seat. Their larger trunk was still in the hold, and would be sent on to the estate when they were ready.

Jane tilted her head back to look up at Ibrahim. “Have you been to Antigua often?”

“We call here every two months or thereabouts, being a regular packet ship.”

“That long between ships?”

“Oh no. Packet ships arrive every two weeks, but it takes us a month to get here and another month to return to England.” He squinted against the sunlight. “I do not go ashore here. But the food is very good. You must particularly try the black pineapple.”

Vincent strode towards them, his complexion marking him out from the crowd of labourers, even if his height did not. He was followed by a brown man in livery. The fawn-coloured knee breeches and coat seemed out of place among the rough linen shirts and rolled trousers surrounding them. The footman's skin was nearly the same shade as the fawn cloth, and Jane wondered for a moment whether he had been chosen to go with the fabric or the fabric with him. The black mourning band on his arm and his close-cropped hair were the only points of contrast. When he boarded, she saw that he was quite young, probably no more than a year and twenty. For all that, he had a peculiar sense of familiarity.

“Mrs. Hamilton.” Vincent addressed her formally now that they were in company. “Ibrahim. This is Zeus from my father's estate, come to meet us.”

“Zeus?” A curious name, though with a sister named Melody, Jane could not make a mock. Mothers chose odd names for their offspring. She ran a hand along the front of her dress to smooth it. “I am grateful for your assistance. How did you know we would arrive today?”

He gave her a bow and, with eyes so low he might have been addressing the ground, answered, “Mr. Frank, the house steward, he sends the carriage on those days that a packet ship is expected. I am to convey you to the Greycroft estate and make arrangements for your trunks to be brought after.” Zeus's voice had a slight softness to the consonants and a novel syncopation. He stepped smoothly to Jane's side and took her parasol, holding it over her as if this were a dance whose steps they had already rehearsed. With equal ease, he picked up their small case and stood waiting to guide them.

Ibrahim bowed over her hand. “It has been a pleasure to have you sail with us, Mrs. Hamilton.”

“Thank you, Ibrahim. I do not think I should have survived the crossing were it not for you.”

He winked at her. “I wish you joy.” And he was away.

Jane followed Zeus across the crowded dockyard. “How far is it to Greycroft?”

“The great house is just above three hours, madam.” He turned from the dockyard and onto the street fronting it. “Here we are.”

An enclosed chaise with a matched pair awaited them. It was in the older style, but still in good repair. Another liveried man stood with the horses, his skin a match for Zeus's in tone, though his face was broader in the cheeks. Still, it was clear that they had been chosen to be a matched pair quite as much as the horses. The noble houses in England often chose their footmen along similar lines, selecting two of the same height, but here.… This man was not simply a servant, but a slave.

She looked back towards the harbour. All of the men must be slaves. Now that she took notice, she saw there were scattered men with whips among them. Until she arrived, Jane had not truly comprehended what going to the West Indies would mean. Like most people in London, she had signed abolitionist petitions and rejoiced when the slave trade was ended in 1807. She even had an abolitionist engraving with the motto
Am I not a man and a brother?
in one of her commonplace books. In England, it had been easy to think that they had triumphed over the evil of slavery itself, rather than merely the sale of slaves.

Vincent handed her into the carriage while Zeus folded her parasol and passed it in to her. A moment later, her husband climbed in, shutting the small door. The glass windows reduced some of the noise from the dockyard, but also the breeze. Jane produced her fan from her reticule and attempted to stir the air a bit. What she would have given in that moment to be able to weave a breeze from glamour, but that was restricted for some time yet.

“Shall I open the window?” Vincent reached for the catch to let down the glass.

“Thank you, yes.” She had half expected him to offer to weave a breeze, but of course that made no sense, as they would depart once their trunk was secured. “You seem concerned. Is something troubling you?”

He compressed his lips and shook his head. The glass lowered easily, letting in a hint of a breeze. “Only anticipating the work ahead.”

Jane settled back in her red velvet seat to watch the streets of St. John's roll past. It was a tidy, modern town, with tall stucco houses and bright painted shutters. As they moved away from the dockyard, she saw more white people, but most of those they passed were some shade of brown. “Are they all slaves?”

“No … I believe there is a healthy population of freedmen here and in Falmouth.” Vincent rubbed his forehead and stared out the window. “Muse, would you mind terribly if I closed my eyes for a bit?”

“Not at all.” His nightmares had resumed as they had drawn closer to Antigua. She doubted he would sleep, but any sort of respite would be of use.

He nodded in thanks and leaned back in the seat, stretching his legs out in front of him. Vincent rested his head against the corner, shutting his eyes with a sigh. She watched him settle, taking advantage of the time to appreciate her husband's figure. With his buckskin breeches tucked into tall boots and black coat, he looked more a nobleman's son and less an artist. If she could convince him to wear gloves, which he avoided, as most professional glamourists did, he would make quite the convincing young man of fashion. The tension slowly eased out of his frame, and his breathing slowed until she thought that he might actually be asleep.

Beyond him, the nature of their surroundings had changed. As they left the centre of town, the houses became smaller and meaner in appearance. Single-story structures appeared, made of wattle and daub and topped with thatch woven of palm fronds. Through the open doors, the bare earth floors were clearly visible. The people here were chiefly coloured and in rough homespun, much patched and faded. Then even those houses dwindled, and they rode through a stand of tamarind and palmetto trees, which entirely guarded them from the intense heat.

Jane had seen palmettos at Brighton, and had even included them in a glamural at her parents' home. But those were poor scrubby specimens compared with these. These were from forty to sixty feet high before they put out a branch, and as straight as a line. The dense growth of leaves overhead created shade, as though the trees were topped with an umbrella made of ferns. When she returned home, she must make the trunks of the palm trees in their glamural smoother and lighter in hue, almost a silver satin.